youngwritersclubfandomcom-20200213-history
The Character Games
Um, so...enjoy. The Reapings (One POV per District...sorry) District 4: Lovisa Kanton I scrub the gritty sand out of my hair and off of my body, yet it seems to find new places to hide every time I think I'm finished. Usually, I wouldn't bother scouring my body for every last grain of salt, or detangling my salty red hair, but today, I've been told, is special. Of course it is. My face morphs into that of distaste as I look at my raw red skin in the mirror. I quickly dry myself, and pull on a sea foam green chiffon dress- my favorite. It's satiny fabric envelopes me warmly. I run my hand over the pale stubble on my legs, wincing. It was too late to shave anyway. Self consciously, I gaze at myself in the mirror, hating what I see. My eyes seem to be drawn to my eyebrows, which are red from rabid plucking. Every girl at my school seemed to think the Hunger Games Reapings are some sort of pageant, where you show how wealthy and gorgeous you are. Melinda, I heard, was throwing an after party, for all of her stupid popular friends. I'm not invited, of course. Her words from the other day sting more than my scrubbed skin. Fat...hairy...ugly... I smooth my hair and take a deep breath. Under a thick coat of makeup, my sore skin disappears. My hand wavers over the eyeliner pencil my stepmom had left for me, thinking how impractical it would be to succumb. Eyeliner is itchy. But then my mind drifts to Grant Halvey, and how I know he would be there. What if I ran into hims? I quickly pencil on the dramatic eyeliner wings I remember my sister wearing, along with a silvery teal eyeshadow. Looking in the mirror, I think of how I would never look as pretty as her. I don't see Callie very often- ever since the separation, my parents split everything in half. Including us. We have never gotten along anyway, so I didn't care. But, Callie was always the one to comfort me when some girl was being a jerk, or when someone called me fat. She was the one who would always do my makeup for school dances, and gave me her dress to wear to my first Freshman dance. We're 4 years apart, but we were still sisters. The glowing green clock on my nightstand beeps- 10 o'clock. The reaping is at noon, but my stepmom always insists on a lovely beachside breakfast to kick it off. She's dead set on me volunteering, and I am fine with that. My fingers quickly pull my hair into a bun, and I run to the car. My dad and stepmom are arguing about where to go, as usual. I slink back in my seat, checking my phone. When we arrive at the painstakingly selected restaurant, I order a small seaweed salad. I honestly have no appetite, ever since I had noticed Melina Cadance only a couple tables away. Slowly, I lower my head. Quick movements would only draw her eyes. But, just my luck, I see two legs moving towards Melina's table. My eyes skirt the top of the table. None other than Grant Halvey seats himself across from the witch herself. I slide my finger tensely on the dusty metal of our table, trying not to gather looks. For better or worse, Melina and Grant are pretty absorbed in each other. From across the patio, I can see their obviously entwined hands. Something in my stomach drops, and I excuse myself from the table. I walk with purpose to the powder room, where I fix my makeup. From my reflection, I see I'm not my normal self. Dramatic makeup can do wonders. Confident that they will no recognize me, I venture out of the safety of the bathroom. Breakfast passes as usual, with my only distraction being the constant kissing noises that so rudely penetrate my ear from across the room. How two teenagers could be so loud is a mystery to me. Back in our beat up pick-up truck, I watch from the back the rolling ocean and sparkling waves. The afternoon sun hit the water in such a way that one could swear it's covered in diamonds and sapphires. The Reaping Party. Right on the beach, thousands of citizens live it up in the hot sand. Probably a favorite event of many, but I've never been a fan. Just another place to be ridiculed, I guess. Volleyball, swimming, drinks, and everybody having a good time. Except me. But the festivities have begun to die down, and streams of people begin to file into their groups. I stand in the group with all of the other 15 year olds. My arms stay folded as I watch our ditzy escort Missy saunter onto the stage, in a ridiculous starched tutu and puffy blouse. Her long glassy eyelashes blink, touching her lips even. I wince as I look at the odd styling of the Capitol. High thin heels, hair in impossible gelled rings around her head, and enough makeup to paint the entire beach. "Ahem, hello district 4!" Despite her annoyingly high-pitched voice, the entire district cheers back in glee. The official movie begins to play, and I force myself not to puke through the experience. A bunch of stupid Capitol propaganda. But whatever. "Wasn't that just lovely? It rivets me every time." The e'' in ever hits a high note, the pitch magnified 200x from the microphone. "Now, we have a special announcement from the Capital. This year, and this year only, for the 130th annual Hunger Games, anybody of any age can volunteer! Of course, only the normal ages will be reaped..." The district ripples with whispers, with this stirring news. Not that it will matter. No, everybody wants the youth of District 4 to volunteer, and bring fame to the district. Missy flashes another painted grin, and strides to the reaping ball. I groan and watch her stand next to the enormous rolling ball for the females. "Ladies first!" She shoves her hand into the glass ball, and rummages around until she pulls out a single strip of paper. "Co-" "I volunteer as tribute." I call, softly. The crowd shuffles, until I am in view. I had obviously called out first, a bit early, but nobody cared. "Ah, our volunteer!" Expected, I am. Volunteers are in surplus. "Come up here and tell us your name." I stride up the concrete steps, and stand in front of the whole district. My friends and family watch agape as I clear my throat. Nobody knew I had planned to volunteer. "Lovisa. Lovisa Kanton." I say, loud, for all to hear. "Well, nice to meet you Lovisa. Now, for the boys." Missy pats me on the back, and I cringe as I feel the sharpness of her steel fingernails. Another paper. "Se-" "I volunteer as tribute." A vaugely familiar boy steps onto the stage. "Alexander Weiss." He stands, straight faced, on the platform, the whole district in stiff silence. He's about 17, with toned biceps and sandy blonde hair. Even tan, bright eyes- a typical District 4 cover boy. Yet there's something familiar about him... The district applauds for us, and I can hear the all-too-normal weeping of would-be volunteers. Next year, I think. Maybe. I straighten my glasses, and walk off without a second glance back. District 7: Skye I turn my head a bit to the side looking at the girl in front of my. Her face is full, with her widow's peak giving the illusion of a heart, one might say. Her eyes, scrubbed of makeup, are a bit small, but the color is a rich cerulean. They tend to reflect the color of where she is- her bedroom. Her eyelashes are full, but not extremely, I notice. Nothing a bit of mascara couldn't fix. Then there was here sandy blonde hair. Streaks of brown ran through the underside, visible when pulled back. Most days, if I looked at this girl, her hair would be a bit frizzy. But today the girl had straightened her hair. But it still wasn't very soft. And her mouth. Though I like to pretend they resemble delicate rosebuds, I know deep down they look overblown, pulled taut to my face. I grimace at the unflattering reflection- I look everyday hoping for some, ''tiny ''change, but, to no avail. Who was I kidding? I set down the small hand mirror. I sigh and look through the only window in my house. Trees surround my house- and just about everything in District 7. The only areas that are completely cleared are the town plaza and the lumber mills. I lean against the wooden dresser, closing my eyes, taking deep breaths. So this is what it's like. Peace. Two months ago I had turned nineteen. It hadn't really sunk in until I realized that I was finally free from the Hunger Games. No longer did I have to fear my name being called. Without telling anyone, I walk down towards the city plaza. The large screen for the showing of the propoganda is lighting up. Our old, unenthusiastic escort- Leonard -starts talking right before the film was over. And then he says something. Something about the age limit. His voice is low and mumbling, but I hear it. I hear that all ages can volunteer. There is dissent among the crowd. But nobody speaks out. Time seems to slow down as I turn and see my friend. My very best friend. Her fist is clenched. I realize what I need to do. At that very moment, I realized three things. #My very best friend wanted to volunteer. #I was going to volunteer. #I was going to die. Leonard had barely glanced at the name he had picked out before I yelled. "I volunteer as tribute." Category:Hunger Games Fanfictions District 12: Fiona Rutheford I press the knife into my wrist a bit further. A breath of relief escapes my lips, as the familiar tingling sensation vibrates down my arm. I sit in the bathtub, the water tainted red from blood. Suddenly, I hear the familiar sound of the front door opening. Quickly, I drain the tub, dry myself, and cover my arms with thick sleeves. My mother is standing in the kitchen, adjusting her gold watch as she talks on her Bluetooth. I wince. Another business call. She glances up at me and I can hear the faint murmur on the earpiece. She straightens her black dress, then mouths the words I so often hear. "Not a word, not a sound, not even a footstep, or you're grounded." She mouths with vehemence. But I was used to it. Having a nice house and food on the table was only compensated by the neglect. Slowly, I tiptoed up the velvety staircase, perfectly vacuumed and cleaned, as usual. Ever since I was a toddler, I knew how to be silent whenever mommy was making her special calls. Slipping through my door, I grabbed my headphones. The only reason my mom even let me keep them was because they shut me up. Apparently the "proper music" for a teenager is Vivaldi or Beethoven- some old dudes who pounded on pianos before Panem. My mom's authoritative voice reached my room, talking about some solutions for the District. I hate the whole set up. At first, I would wear the cutest clothes and apply lots of makeup, and hang out with all the right people. I was a typical popular. But of course, there are always people who want to bring you down. Then dad died, and then Aaron was sent to District 2 to become a Peacekeeper. He was seriously injured and I haven't heard about him since. Then the insults started, then tears, and then it seemed nobody liked me. Fat, ugly, annoying, attention seeker...anorexia, bulimia, and cutting followed. And it was fine by me. There's a certain satisfaction that only a blade through the skin can replicate. The sudden breeze from an open window caught my attention and my closet door started to open. I lunged for it, so that it wouldn't bang against the wall. The sores on my legs burned, but I grit my teeth and kept going. As I caught it, a bit of pink caught my eye. Upon closer inspection, it was a ''dress. Not just any dress, but a magenta, strapless dress. Sleeveless, with an asymmetrical silky skirt that would probably drag when I walked. IF I would. Which I definitely would NOT. It was obviously for the Reaping. My mother only cares about what I look like in public. When it comes to home, she doesn't are at all. It was today, and I had already forgotten. Crud. Category:Hunger Games Fanfictions